Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,77

week after this.

‘The escort’s name was Jean-Paul Leville. And guess what – he’s no normal escort.’

‘Don’t tell me – another specialist.’

‘Damn. How did you know?’

‘I didn’t. But it seemed unusual for a motorcycle cop to survive coming off his bike enough to fight back and disable two attackers. What is he?’

‘A former marine commando. Served with an elite unit in the Horn of Africa, trained men at Lorient, the commando training school, and even ran specialist courses for the Legion on escape and evasion techniques and close-quarter fighting. There are gaps in his résumé of several months at a time, but we can both guess what they were.’

‘Covert missions.’ It had to be. The alternative was prison. But men with prison records wouldn’t get anywhere near becoming a motorcycle cop, let alone serving as an official security guard. Leville was a government gunman.

‘Exactly. Falling off a bike at speed and getting up again would be pretty simple for a guy like him, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. So what’s he doing riding a bike for the official fleet?’

‘God knows. Certainly not for the excitement or the fresh air.’

There was only one reason Rocco could think of: someone had known the car was going to be hit and had brought in a specialist. If that were the case, the attackers couldn’t have known their plan was exposed, and would have been in ignorance about who they were up against. If they had known, as reckless as some of the extreme groups were, they would have thought twice about launching the attack.

Unless they had been told something completely different.

‘Where is this supersoldier now?’

‘Disappeared. Caspar said the hospital’s now under a shutdown order. He got all this from a contact who got a peek at Leville’s medical record.’

‘They had it to hand just like that?’

‘Seems so. He had light abrasions and a wrenched shoulder. Pretty standard stuff for a para, I’d have thought. They discharged him at his own request and he was gone.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Listen, Lucas, this isn’t over; I’ll call you back the moment I get anything. I’ve got to go.’

‘Thanks, Michel.’ Rocco put the phone down.

The whole thing smelt wrong. Medical records didn’t simply turn up like that at the drop of a hat, not even with improved filing systems. But they might if the person they applied to was expected to suffer injuries and need urgent treatment. The president, for example, was one; soldiers on dangerous missions were others; and specialists on high-risk covert assignments in-country.

The attackers had been set up to fail.

As he thought it over, his eyes settled on a crumpled slip of paper on the table. It was the note Desmoulins had handed him in the station. He hadn’t even looked at it yet, too weighed down with what had taken place back at the station. He picked it up and read it. Then read it again. It was in Rizzotti’s handwriting, and helpfully concise.

Tell Lucas the DS battery carried a supply sticker from Ets. Lilas Moteurs – a garage in St Gervais.

Rocco felt as if an electric charge had gone through him. St Gervais. If it was the same St Gervais he knew, it was an eastern suburb of Paris and within spitting distance of Delarue’s stamping grounds around the 10th and 19th arrondissements.

He grabbed the phone and dialled Santer. When his friend answered, he read him the contents of the note. It was a remote possibility, but what were the chances of a car battery from a garage in eastern Paris ending up out here? Was that why the people behind the killing of Bellin had been so keen on seeing the car destroyed – to eliminate any possibility of a link back to them?

‘Anything’s possible,’ Santer said reasonably. ‘But a damn sight better than anything else we’ve got. I’ll get Caspar to go in there. That way we don’t have any jurisdictional problems. In the meantime I’ll get someone looking into who owns this place. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tasker was back at the Old Bourbon, in Stepney. Ketch was behind the desk as usual, with Brayne sitting in like a watchful Buddha, saying little but absorbing every word.

‘We’ve had word from our friends across the Channel,’ Ketch announced grandly, studying the end of a fat cigar and blowing gently on the burning tip. ‘Your pal Inspector Rocco has been suspended pending investigation for corruption. How about that? They don’t hang about, do they? One whiff and those